it to His Excellency.”
Glessing nodded curtly and snapped at the master-at-arms: “Sailors one tot, compliments of Struan and Company. Marines none. Stand easy.”
In spite of his fury at Struan, Glessing could not help glorying in the knowledge that as long as there was a Colony of Hong Kong his name would be remembered. For Struan never said anything lightly.
There was a toast to Hong Kong, and three cheers. Then Struan nodded to the piper, and the skirl of the clan Struan filled the beach.
Robb drank nothing. Struan sipped a glass of brandy and ambled through the throng, greeting those he wished to greet and nodding to others.
“You’re not drinking, Gordon?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Struan.” Gordan Chen bowed in Chinese fashion, very proud to be noticed.
“How are things going with you?”
“Very well, thank you, sir.”
The lad’s grown into a fine young man, Struan thought. How old is he now? Nineteen. Time goes so fast.
He remembered Kai-sung, the boy’s mother, fondly. She had been his first mistress and most beautiful. Ayee yah, she taught you a lot.
“How’s your mother?” he asked.
“She’s very well.” Gordon Chen smiled. “She would wish me to give you her prayers for your safety. Every month she burns joss sticks in your honor at the temple.”
Struan wondered how she looked now. He had not seen her for seventeen years. But he remembered her face clearly. “Send her my best wishes.”
“You do her too much honor, Mr. Struan.”
“Chen Sheng tells me you are working hard and are very useful to him.”
“He is too kind to me, sir.”
Chen Sheng was never kind to anyone who did not more than earn his keep. Chen Sheng’s an old thief, Struan thought, but, by God, we’d be lost without him.
“Well,” Struan said, “you could na have a better teacher than Chen Sheng. There’ll be lots to do in the next few months. Lots of squeeze to be made.”
“I hope to be of service to The Noble House, sir.” Struan sensed that his son had something on his mind, but he merely nodded pleasantly and walked off, knowing that Gordon would find a way to tell him when the time was ripe.
Gordon Chen bowed and after a moment wandered down to one of the tables and waited politely in the background until there was space for him, conscious of the stares but not caring; he knew that as long as Struan was
the
Tai-Pan he was quite safe.
The merchants and sailors around the beach ripped chickens and suckling pigs to pieces with their hands and stuffed themselves with the meat, grease running down their chins. What a bunch of savages, Gordon Chen thought, and thanked his joss that he had been brought up as a Chinese and not a European.
Yes, he thought, my joss has been huge. Joss had brought him his secret Chinese Teacher a few years ago. He had told no one about the Teacher, not even his mother. From this man he had learned that not all that the Reverends Sinclair and Mauss had taught was necessarily true. He had learned about Buddha and about China and her past. And how to repay the gift of life and use it to the glory of his motherland. Then last year the Teacher had initiated him into the most powerful, most clandestine, most militant of the Chinese secret societies, the Hung Mun Tong, which was spread all over China and was committed by the most sacred oaths of blood brotherhood to overthrow the hated Manchus, the foreign Ch’ings, the ruling dynasty of China.
For two centuries under various guises and names the society had fostered insurrection. There had been revolts all over the Chinese Empire—from Tibet to Formosa, from Mongolia to Indochina. Wherever there was famine or oppression or discontent, the Hung Mun would band the peasants together against the Ch’ings and against their mandarins. All the insurrections had failed and had been put down savagely by the Ch’ings. But the society had survived.
Gordon Chen felt honored that he, only part Chinese, had been considered worthy
Glessing nodded curtly and snapped at the master-at-arms: “Sailors one tot, compliments of Struan and Company. Marines none. Stand easy.”
In spite of his fury at Struan, Glessing could not help glorying in the knowledge that as long as there was a Colony of Hong Kong his name would be remembered. For Struan never said anything lightly.
There was a toast to Hong Kong, and three cheers. Then Struan nodded to the piper, and the skirl of the clan Struan filled the beach.
Robb drank nothing. Struan sipped a glass of brandy and ambled through the throng, greeting those he wished to greet and nodding to others.
“You’re not drinking, Gordon?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Struan.” Gordan Chen bowed in Chinese fashion, very proud to be noticed.
“How are things going with you?”
“Very well, thank you, sir.”
The lad’s grown into a fine young man, Struan thought. How old is he now? Nineteen. Time goes so fast.
He remembered Kai-sung, the boy’s mother, fondly. She had been his first mistress and most beautiful. Ayee yah, she taught you a lot.
“How’s your mother?” he asked.
“She’s very well.” Gordon Chen smiled. “She would wish me to give you her prayers for your safety. Every month she burns joss sticks in your honor at the temple.”
Struan wondered how she looked now. He had not seen her for seventeen years. But he remembered her face clearly. “Send her my best wishes.”
“You do her too much honor, Mr. Struan.”
“Chen Sheng tells me you are working hard and are very useful to him.”
“He is too kind to me, sir.”
Chen Sheng was never kind to anyone who did not more than earn his keep. Chen Sheng’s an old thief, Struan thought, but, by God, we’d be lost without him.
“Well,” Struan said, “you could na have a better teacher than Chen Sheng. There’ll be lots to do in the next few months. Lots of squeeze to be made.”
“I hope to be of service to The Noble House, sir.” Struan sensed that his son had something on his mind, but he merely nodded pleasantly and walked off, knowing that Gordon would find a way to tell him when the time was ripe.
Gordon Chen bowed and after a moment wandered down to one of the tables and waited politely in the background until there was space for him, conscious of the stares but not caring; he knew that as long as Struan was
the
Tai-Pan he was quite safe.
The merchants and sailors around the beach ripped chickens and suckling pigs to pieces with their hands and stuffed themselves with the meat, grease running down their chins. What a bunch of savages, Gordon Chen thought, and thanked his joss that he had been brought up as a Chinese and not a European.
Yes, he thought, my joss has been huge. Joss had brought him his secret Chinese Teacher a few years ago. He had told no one about the Teacher, not even his mother. From this man he had learned that not all that the Reverends Sinclair and Mauss had taught was necessarily true. He had learned about Buddha and about China and her past. And how to repay the gift of life and use it to the glory of his motherland. Then last year the Teacher had initiated him into the most powerful, most clandestine, most militant of the Chinese secret societies, the Hung Mun Tong, which was spread all over China and was committed by the most sacred oaths of blood brotherhood to overthrow the hated Manchus, the foreign Ch’ings, the ruling dynasty of China.
For two centuries under various guises and names the society had fostered insurrection. There had been revolts all over the Chinese Empire—from Tibet to Formosa, from Mongolia to Indochina. Wherever there was famine or oppression or discontent, the Hung Mun would band the peasants together against the Ch’ings and against their mandarins. All the insurrections had failed and had been put down savagely by the Ch’ings. But the society had survived.
Gordon Chen felt honored that he, only part Chinese, had been considered worthy
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